The miracle of mould
It sweats a palette of purple stars
to birthmark new-born skies:
each bruise is a pinprick miracle
whose galaxies of dead weight
are spinning dreams from dust –
hooked on air like an addict
or artist – the house is sucked
to a shadow of its former self.
Masterpiece or mould,
it’s difficult to tell until the brick
turns bad like any love bite does.
unpublished poem, © Jade Cuttle 2019, used by permission of the author.